The Dragon of the Thames
by TheShoelessOne
Summary: Fourth part of the Jack Holmes Series. Chapter 4 Up! 6 years after the McGuiness kidnapping, Jack Holmes is bored out of his mind. Only a rash of murders of beautiful young women will bring him to his old self... Or will it?
1. October 25, 1949

**Chapter One: October 25, 1949**

"The move is yours, Jack."

I blinked in rapid succession, bringing my unfocused eyes to stare at the chess board in front of me. The long, careful fingers of Sherlock Holmes were resting upon each other in front of his face, where his eyes were carefully studying me. I rubbed my eyes unceremoniously and yawned. The chess game had gone on for what seemed like hours. I was inches away from simply throwing the board at my mentor's face and waking myself. But I was out of options.

"You are detached," Holmes said simply, sitting back in his chair. "Perhaps we shall continue at a later time?" I shook my head.

"No, Holmes, I shall not let you desert me as well..." I placed my fingertip upon my closest pawn and looked across the board at Holmes. His face was unchanged. With a great sigh, I fell back against my chair and folded my arms. "I despise this monotony, Holmes. This gray area is driving me insane." I sat forward again and contemplated my position on the board. I was losing, miserably. Finally, I moved my knight in to capture his open bishop, only to have it whisked away by his well-hidden queen. I glared furiously at the piece.

"You must be very low on options if you chose to retreat inside yourself to try your wit against mine, Jack," Holmes said as he twisted my knight with his fingers. "I am not the most entertaining or even agreeable chess-mate."

"As much as I would love to agree with you on that point, Holmes, I will not rise to ire. There is hardly enough stamina in me to keep my eyes open in this listlessness." In frustration, I moved my pawn forward a space. Holmes's black pawn quickly eradicated my white one.

"Checkmate," he muttered in a low tone, his eyes surveying the board. My head popped up and I frantically swept my eyes over the board. Indeed, my king was boxed in, incapable of movement without defeat. I grumbled as I knocked my king onto its side.

"Holmes, you _must_ have gone through times like these, where it seems impossible to think."

"I found that, between cases, time itself would seem to slow and mock me. And, yes, I found it increasingly hard to focus in those, what did you call them... 'gray areas.'"

"Then, please," I pleaded, leaning my face into my hand, which was propped upon the table, "tell me what it is that helped you fight the tedium."

The silence that followed was one of the longest and most nerve-wracking I had ever had to endure. Just sitting there, watching Holmes's jaw muscle twitch, his eyebrows dig downward, and his piercing gray eyes look seemingly everywhere but at me. At last, after what felt like days, Holmes moved again, and he began to pack away the chess pieces.

"Holmes-"

"Opium," he told me tersely. I sealed my lips and watched in silence as he carefully fitted every piece into its place beneath the board. They each fell into place snugly on the red velvet lining. He folded the wooden board and locked the clasp tight. "I injected myself with opium, a seven-per-cent solution, to be exact." He looked up at me, and all the life had left his eyes. For the first time, I was afraid of Sherlock Holmes.

"I am sorry, Holmes," I said quietly after another agonizing minute of silence. He opened a drawer and placed the chess set inside of it. He looked up as he closed the drawer with a snap.

"No, you are inquisitive by nature. I was expecting the question and its inevitable answer to come some day." Again he sighed. The wind began to billow around us, and I stood from my seat to look around us at the scene I had created. It was the field of wheat. I had always been quite fond of it. The sun was setting, and the single desk in the center of the field stood out as dark wood on tan wheat. And there was Holmes.

Silhouetted against the orange of the setting sun, I watched as he contemplated, smoking that pipe. I was struck with a sense of strange beauty, about the whole scene and how the two of us fit into it, as if we were the subject in some bizarre painting. The wind rustled slightly, stirring the wheat about me.

"Holmes," I said quietly. He turned his head slightly. "Do you remember what I asked you almost six years ago in this very field?" Holmes cast an eye about him, and the edges of his mouth curled upward.

"Yes. You were quite a bit younger then." A chuckle. "And naive. But I remember your question. And the half of your retort that you failed to let me know the remainder of." A ring of smoke drifted up into the heavens. I watched it dissipate among the tufts of white clouds, then walked up to Holmes's side, following his gaze to a lovely tree in it's autumn best, a showy red.

"I remember as well," I told him, even though I knew that he already knew this. "I remember thinking that I did not want you to leave. I did not know how long I could make it on my own without you pushing me in the right direction, or your advice in my ear, nagging me." I laughed. I could feel his eyes upon me, but still I watched as the breeze played in the fingers of the red tree. "And even though I was barely old enough to be an adult then... I still think it. Every day. What if Holmes isn't there when I wake up one day? What if, someday, I am left on my own when I am not ready to let go?" I finally broke my staring contest with the tree and looked at Holmes.

There was something on his face that I had never seen before: indecision. His face was stuck between to two emotions, and it was as if he could not choose which to convey. There was concern, and there was also something I never expected to see grace his face. It was admiration, a caring smile with eyebrows tilted upward in that strange concern. Words were taken from my throat as if I had received a slap.

"If it is any consolation, my boy, I have no intention of throwing you to the wolves just yet." He looked back to the tree, the strange smile still clinging to his features, and he placed his hand on my shoulder and gripped it firmly.

A door opening and closing again woke me, startled, from my unconscious state. I sat up quickly and rubbed the sleep from my eyes to see who had entered the flat. As my eyes focused on the dark form, I smiled.

"Ron," I said with a laugh in my chest, "how was school?" He shot me a look of loathing. "The place is a hell-hole, Jack! How could you send me there? I'm suffering!" He threw his bag on the coat rack and walked into the living room to flop down onto the couch next to me. I gave him a look of comical hurt.

"Ron, I've sent you to the finest school for boys in London! I am sure that many of your friends would saw off a leg for the chance to attend the City of London School for Boys!" "Exactly," Ron moaned as he covered his eyes with his arm. "There are no girls there, Jack. What am I supposed to do, fantasize about the teachers? The school nurse? Please, Jack, she must be 40-something!" I cringed at his logic.

"What if you focused on your studies instead of the female anatomy?"

"I'm a teenager, Jack. I can't help myself." He flashed a smile and removed his arm from his eyes. I noticed, with pleasure, that his speech had dramatically improved since his schooling began at age 10. "Come on... You can't say you never looked at a girl when you were a teenager, can you?"

My thoughts, for an instant, traveled all the miles Watson and I had traversed to London, back to the orphanage, back to my teenage years, and back to Rose Williamson. A harsh blush rose to my cheeks, and I looked away to the ceiling. Ron laughed as the door opened again.

"Uncle John knows what I'm talking about, don't you, Uncle John?" Ron's gay brown eyes danced from my form to the two forms that had just entered. Watson's eyes bulged, and Sara giggled at his reaction.

"_What_ do I know?" He looked from Ron, then to me, his face a jumble of questions. I laughed as well, getting to my feet to shake Sara's hand, even though she had become something of a permanent fixture in our home during the day.

"Nothing, Watson." I clapped him on the shoulder, then leaned close to whisper advice. "Watson, put your glasses on." Flustered, Watson reached inside his breast pocket and pulled out his newly acquired round, wire-rimmed glasses and set them on the bridge of his nose.

"Honestly, I shall never become accustomed to these blasted things," Watson said with a growl. "I don't even know why I need them." I shook my head.

"You sit far too close to the paper when you write. It gives you a penchant for bad eyesight." I looked sideways at Sara, who was admiring her beau's eyewear with a smile. "Not to mention your liking to sit as close as possible to the screen at the cinema." Watson's great frown flickered for a moment into a smile.

"Oh, but Holmes, I had never seen a picture before, being an orphan and all." He glanced at Sara, and his grip on her arm increased. "It really was amazing, Holmes. Nigel Bruce makes a very amiable if bumbling Dr. Watson." I wanted to burst into laughter, but I refrained.

"I hear that Mr. Rathbone plays a rather convincing Sherlock Holmes. I shall have to see one of his pictures one of these days." I simply had to wait a second for Holmes's gruff reply to come.

'Now they are making cinema pictures about me. My own fame will never cease to amaze me.'

"So, my dear Sara, what brings you to our doorstep this afternoon?" I asked, addressing the young woman presently. I noticed that, after her family had settled down only a few streets away, she had grown in more ways than one. Now at least 18, I thought, her hair, once long and braided, was now barely beyond her shoulders and filled with bouncing curls. She clung to Watson's arm as a bright smile filled her face.

"David was invited to a Halloween party tonight, and the invitation told him to bring as many friends and family that he wanted to. He's already bringing all of the girls, and offered to bring Johnny along." Her bright blue eyes shot to Watson's again, and she returned them to mine. "He's extended an invitation to you and your brother, Holmes." Ron nearly rocketed from his seat. A chance to meet women of his own age (a ripe 16) was an invitation he would be loath to pass up.

"I am sorry to say that neither of us can join you this evening," I said, looking with a raised eyebrow at my brother. His face became full of red anger.

"Well, you don't have to go, you stick in the mud, but I'm goin'!" He looked as if he were about to ask Sara something, then I held out an arm to quiet him.

"You have studying to do, Ron. I received the marks on your last English exam, and I was not very pleased. It would do you well to study thoroughly for the next exam in two days." I smiled. He opened and closed his mouth in rapid succession, his likeness to a fish increased tenfold, then grabbed his bag from the coat rack and stormed into the small room which I had occupied with Watson when Mr. Richardson had owned the flat. As the door slammed, I turned back to my two friends, who wore identical frowns.

"Well, we know why Ron can't make it, but what's keeping you, Holmes?" Watson asked. I shrugged and sat myself on the couch again.

"I have no costume. Do not think I failed to see your costumes stored in that bag," I added with a nod toward the bag held by Sara's free hand. She finally freed Watson's arm and sat beside me.

"You don't need anything fancy. You can just grab something out of the closet and pretend you're someone famous." She dug into the bag and fished out a strange, hound's-tooth-checked deerstalker and placed it on top of my head before sitting up again and handing Watson's costume to him. She disappeared into the loo for changing. Watson smiled with a sigh as he watched her go.

"You know, Holmes, I have no idea how I came to have the prettiest girl in London." With those words, he retreated to the master bedroom, where we had moved our two separate beds after Mr. Richardson died. I got to my feet and observed the unfortunate deerstalker by turning it over in my hands.

"I suppose that I have no choice," I muttered as I fixed the deerstalker atop my mass of thick hair as best I could.

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AN: All right! I'm actually getting this started earlier than originally planned due to popular demand. I've acquired a few more rabid fans than I expected. Just so everyone knows, this story will be longer, darker and more sinister than any Jack Holmes story I've written. Darker than ANY story I've written, to tell the truth. Hope everyone likes! Have fun!


	2. The Masquerade

**Chapter Two: The Masquerade**

I clenched my pipe between my teeth embarrassedly. Sara stood between Watson and myself, one arm linked with Watson's affectionately. We stood before the home she shared with her siblings, a rather sorry-looking flat on the bottom floor, smelling faintly of wet fur. She was dressed in an exquisite gown of pure black, her lace frill around the neckline a blood red. Watson, looking a bit edgy himself, was bedecked in a rather gentlemanly, if not overly extravagant, Dracula costume. I had only to infer that Sara was Mina Harker, from the way she wore her hair that night. I smiled at the two of them, and looked up as the door opened.

Out stepped David McGuiness, looking healthier, and more muscular, than when I had found him six years ago. Yes, we had seen each other every few days after, but never had we joined forces in such an outing. He was sporting the military uniform our troops had worn in the previous war, the war we were all so very glad had ended in our favor. I smiled and tipped my unfortunate hat as he joined us. He turned toward the doorway, and laughed.

"Come on, girls, it's only Uncle John and Mr. Holmes!" He called to them jovially. I chuckled. The first to appear was the youngest, Alice. I felt a sadness in my heart. She still had not uttered a word since the fright of the kidnapping. Still, she looked happy as she greeted me with an embrace.

"Well, Alice, I see that the apple does not stray far from the tree," I told her as I surveyed her war nurse's costume. She nodded with a wide grin. I looked up as Anna trotted out wearing a dress covered in sequins that glittered in the fading sunlight. Watson raised his eyebrows.

"Anna, really, what are you supposed to be?" he asked incredulously. She curtseyed with a tiny motion and brought out the largest pair of sunglasses I had ever beheld.

"I'm a movie star from the States, Uncle John!" She twirled, letting the sequins dance. "How do I look?" She looked to me for the answer. I laughed.

"You are sure to attract the eye of many a rabid teenage boy, dear Anna," I responded. She blushed furiously and dug into her handbag as if she had found something important in there. I laughed. David looked to his watch, then to the doorway.

"Joan, if you don't speed it up, we'll be late!"

"D-Do I have to come, David?" Came a frightened voice from the darkened doorway. I raised an eyebrow. It was Joan's voice, but the tone was one I was not used to. I remembered Joan as a fiery girl, with a temper to rival that of a cornered Nazi. David sighed.

"Just come out of there, Joan-y, so we can get going!" Anna called, smoothing out the ruffles of her dress. There was the click clacking of heeled shoes from inside the flat, and in only a moment, I felt as if I had been bowled over.

There she stood, practically glowing with the blood in her cheeks, dressed in an elegant, flowing gown of blues. She held an umbrella, folded tightly, in her right hand, which matched her gown perfectly. Even though there were no sequins like Anna's dress held, Joan's dress seemed to catch the light, refract it into the thousands of possible colors. It was the most complete change I had ever seen in someone. She was demure, and perhaps even a little bit frightened, as she brought her eyes from the ground.

...And looked straight at me.

Then she smiled. It was the oddest feeling I had ever felt, when my mind no longer had control, and I smiled as well.

"Oh, hello, Mr. Holmes!" This was not Joan's voice, and I looked abruptly to where a figure stood behind Joan. Her bouncing blonde ringlets gave her away.

"Ah, good evening, Mrs. McGuiness."

"Please, Mr. Holmes," she said with a little curtsey, "just call me Hannah." Hannah gently aided Joan out of the doorway, and I examined both of their costumes. Mrs. McGuiness's was easy enough to guess. She was wearing a French woman's dress from the previous century. I was still completely baffled by Joan's mystifying raiment.

"Joan," I said, shaking my head as I brought my eyes to her face, "I am at a loss as to what you have dressed yourself up to be." She dropped her eyes, suddenly very interested in the ground at our feet.

"I'm supposed to be.... rain..." She smiled at her feet, obviously embarrassed at her choice of costume. I felt compelled, suddenly, to walk to her and loop her arm through my own. She looked up, surprised.

"It suits you," I told her. Her shy smile widened into a grin. Hannah took David's hand in her own.

"Well, what are we waiting for, a parade?" Hannah asked. Watson laughed aloud.

"I do think that we could make quite a parade ourselves," he said with a grin.

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Night had fallen and a chill had taken to the autumn air as we arrived at the address on the invitation. I chose to ignore the fact that Joan was gripping rather painfully to my arm, perhaps in attempts to keep warm. Alice was now holding tightly on as she sat atop David's shoulders in glee. I looked from the happy family members, up the long drive to where the house stood. I shivered, but from the cold or from a tingle of fear, I did not know.

The house before us was not simply a house, but a great mansion, windows shining out in every direction, shedding a yellow glow on the dead ground around it. It was the largest residence I had ever set eyes upon, including the orphanage that I had called home for nearly 13 years of my life. From afar, the mansion looked frightening, lit against the dark sky with dead branches scratching against the sides. But as we neared, the warm glow from within filled us, and we all calmed a few notches, Joan's grip on my arm easing. I turned to Mr. McGuiness.

"So, my dear friend David, who exactly is the owner of this establishment?" I asked. He grinned widely.

"Mrs. Ruby Ballantyne," he said, as if announcing the arrival of a Queen. "Her husband, God rest his soul, was the man who originally funded our troupe. Harold Ballantyne... What a man he was..." He gazed into the sky, as if in rapture. Joan tugged at my arm minutely, and I turned to her. Her face had returned to its normal, lively self.

"Mrs. Ballantyne still gives the troupe money every year," she told me, her eyes alight with life. "This is the first Halloween party she's thrown since her husband died ten years ago. Our family used to get invitations every year from the Ballentynes, even if we were off somewhere doing performances. Before Mum and Dad died, that is. They died the same year as Mr. Ballantyne..." She trailed off, and attempted a smile. She shook her head, "Mr. Holmes, you never told me who exactly you are supposed to be masquerading as." I watched for a moment as her lively eyes sparkled and her lips parted in a smile, then looked away, chewing absently at the stem of my empty pipe.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes."

The great mahogany doors were opened wide as we approached, and we were greeted by an old butler, at least in his forties, with short graying hair and a scar on his lip. He held out his hand, expecting an invitation. David produced it.

"Mr. David McGuiness, the McGuiness clan, and Mr. Holmes and Mr. Watson, reporting as instructed from the invitation, Mr. Acton." David referred to the butler by name. The butler smiled at the man and pocketed the invitation.

"One can never be too careful, Mr. McGuiness." He looked as the girls entered, then called to David again, "And please, Mr. McGuiness, call me George."

The sound of a string quartet filled the foyer, which must have been hard, for the foyer seemed to stretch into oblivion for its vastness. Hats and coats were taken, but I refused to give up my greatcoat. It completed my costume. Following the cavernous hallway back into the heart of the house, the music swelled and grew louder. We trekked deeper and deeper into the house until finally, two doors were thrown open, and we were outside once more.

It was a garden. A beautiful garden surrounded by arbor arches, bushes of different colors and shapes, trees in their autumn dress, and lights strung about in a jovial fashion. People clad in costumes were laughing, dancing and drinking to their heart's content, awash in a sea of happiness and camaraderie. I let the whole scene flood my senses, and suddenly, I didn't care about anything.

"Johnny," I heard Sara's voice from beside me, cooing, "put on your glasses."

"Damn and curse my confounded glasses," Watson grumbled. "Count Dracula doesn't wear glasses." Sara laughed, taking the glasses from his pocket and setting them on the bridge of his nose.

"I think they make you look distinguished," she said. Watson, taken aback, fixed the glasses onto his nose with a grin, then motioned for Sara to dance with him. She accepted with a tiny curtsey, and they were gone into the swirling mass of dancers. David and Hannah had already disappeared, taking the younger McGuiness girls with them.

"Mr. Holmes," Joan said from my arm, coyly, "would you... I mean..." I sighed and took her hand in my own.

"Joan, please..." her eyes faltered at the tone in my voice. Then I grinned. "Please, for God's sake, stop acting like a frightened child. I have come to expect a more lively performance from you." That spark in her eyes, the same life that I had seen in her the day I had first met her, lit up once more. "And for the love of all that is Holy... Call me Jack."

"Jack," she said, as if experimenting with the name in her mouth, "I want you to dance with me." She held her head higher. She was nearly as tall as I was. "And if you do not say yes, I shall be forced to slap you." I laughed, and the sound melded with the constant noise around us.

"Then I shall say yes," I told her, and, taking her waist in my other hand, we waltzed together to the dance floor.

After so long dancing, my mind no longer counted the minutes we twirled together on the dance floor. Neither of us really knew how to dance very well, but we worked with what we had. We quite literally bumped into Watson and Sara more than twice, but each time, we found it more and more hilarious. And when we weren't dancing, we were partaking of the lovely selection of alcohol that was laid with care on a table, which was being guarded by a stern maid. Her horse-like features and aging blonde hair, along with the calloused fingertips, told me she was the house owner's personal maid. We visited her many times to partake of the various drinks that were available.

After that, I was only vaguely aware that I went inside the house to find the loo, looked at a few of the books on the bookcases that seemed to populate the house, and was met by a rather old woman with graying red hair. She stopped me by holding onto my shoulders.

"I say, young man, are you feeling all right?" she asked me. Her voice was younger than her face. I nodded, the alcohol in me not particularly helping. She gave me a wan smile then went on her way. I returned to the garden, most of the party having calmed to a less noisy, calmed point. I blinked a few times to clear my vision, searching for my dance partner. I could see Watson fiddling with his glasses, still undetermined as to whether he should wear them or not. David McGuiness and his wife were talking in low voices, a tired Alice asleep on her brother's lap.

Then there was Joan, sitting alone on a stone bench on the fringe of the garden. I stood in the doorway to the garden, just watching her as she smoothed out the ruffles in her rain dress, fidgeting with her umbrella, playing with her curls. I leaned against the doorway, more for support than for contemplation. I watched, and thought, for minutes on end. Then I straightened the brim of my hat, as if preparing for battle, and strode over to where she sat and placed myself beside her.

"Good evening, Joan," I said, fighting off the fatigue from the alcohol. She looked up from her dress and smiled. "My dear, are you quite sure you are old enough to be drinking?" She smirked that spiteful smirk she had used on me so long ago.

"Jack, I am hardly two years younger than you are. Of course I can drink." She observed my manner, then giggled. "Though I am not entirely sure that _you_ should be drinking anything." I laughed and looked out upon the weary string quartet, the giggling dancers, their hands intertwined, then brought my eyes back to Joan's. When I had first met her, I had almost suspected her of planning a kidnapping on her brother. I grinned widely.

"Joan," I called, and she turned her head away from the dancers and looked, almost surprised, toward me. "Do you remember when you said you wouldn't trust me as far as you could hit me with a cricket bat?" She laughed and looked away.

"I also said that you put me in my place," her bashful demeanor had taken over again. I cocked my head, then emboldened myself.

'Jack,' Sherlock muttered quietly, after not interfering all night, 'do not do something you should regret.' I ignored him. There were times to take advice, and there were times to take things into your own hands. I chose the latter.

"Joan," I said again. She glanced at me, and I saw that her face was flushed vividly. "Would you be adverse to the idea of me kissing you?" She caught her breath, then laughed.

"Jack, I think you've had quite enough to drink..." I stopped her before she could continue.

"No, Joan, listen... I would not have a woman who would sit demurely in some corner and only emerge to cook dinner. A woman who speaks her mind, who is... who is... strong in her opinions, lively, fiery... Joan," I smiled widely, "It would please me overly much if you would allow me to kiss you." For a moment, it seemed like the whole party had stopped to watch us. Even Joan had stopped breathing. No one wanted to move. Then a sound from above caught our attentions, and we looked up sharply.

"Friends, partygoers," came a familiar female voice. I squinted. There was a human from looming above us on a third-story balcony. It was the red-haired woman that I had seen inside the house. It hit me then. It was Ruby Ballantyne. "The time is almost come for all to return home, but before you do, please, please, I wish to thank you all for making this night a memorable one." Clapping, calls, followed her speech, and I could see that Ruby Ballantyne was smiling lovingly. I joined in the clapping.

Soon, all of the guests were filing out of the great front doors, chatting amiably between themselves. Again, Joan's arm was slipped into mine, but now her grip was not so tight. I was quite ready to return home, to lay in my bed and await the imminent headache the next morning. If only I hadn't heard the voice close to my ear.

"Hey, detective!" I stopped and turned. It was an unfamiliar face, but I was not surprised that he knew who I was. I was rather eminent, by then. I was faced with five young men, ranging anywhere from 16 to 23 years. They were dressed not for the occasion, but as they would normally dress in society. They were rabble-rousers, ruffians, wearing jackets of black leather, from the look of it. I glared in their direction. One stepped forward, obviously the one calling me.

"Yes?" I asked, gripping Joan's arm closer. She looked from my face to the thug's.

"You got no right t' hold her arm," he said, looking at Joan. "She belongs with someone like us," he added with a foul smirk. "Come on, lovely, d'you really want t' be with such a stuck-up lout?" Joan's eyes grew dark. It was the same foul look she had given me six years ago.

"How dare you?" She asked in a growl. I was quicker than she. I placed her behind me.

"How dare you suggest that she house with the likes of you, you filthy ruffian!" I said quickly. I admit, it wasn't the best I had ever assembled, but, as I had said, I was rather drunk.

The last images I remember were the grass rushing up to meet my face, and Joan's fists flying like a whirlwind into the faces of the thugs.

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AN: There... Maybe one of the longer chapters I've written for Mr. Holmes. Please, no one crucify me, or anything. I'm adverse to pain. I hope everyone likes it, or I'll cry... Have fun reading!


	3. The Many Faces of Women

**Chapter Three: The Many Faces of Women**

"You spoke like a drunkard, Jack."

"No offence, Holmes, but at the time I _was_ a drunkard."

I lay on my back in a field of soft green grasses, plucking the tallest from my range of vision as I stared into the cloudless sky. Holmes stood, a displeased expression on his face. He disapproved of my words to Joan McGuiness, while I found them totally appropriate. I shifted on the grass to turn to him.

"Holmes, why is it that you never settled in with a woman? I hear they can be dreadfully handy." My encouraging smile was not mirrored on his own face. He turned his back to me, staring out over the ocean.

"I have never found a woman that was to my liking. There are very few women in the world who have come to earn my respect." He turned back, staring as if to grind a point into me. "One of which poisoned her entire family."

"The other being the infamous Irene Adler," I said with a laugh. Holmes' face was decidedly pale, more so than usual.

"Yes," he murmured. "I was also referring to Ms. Adler."

"The only woman to ever outsmart Sherlock Holmes," I added, picking off another piece of grass and flicking it into the breeze. "I've always wondered, Holmes, if you ever had feelings for Ms. Adler."

"Of course I didn't," Holmes said gruffly. I hadn't noticed that his teeth were grinding together as he said so.

"But, to Sherlock Holmes, she was always 'the woman.'" I quoted loudly.

Holmes rounded viciously.

"She was a criminal, Jack, and for you to even _consider_ that I 'had feelings' for Ms. Adler, you would be greatly mistaken." His voice was thin. The anger was taut in his face, but his voice was low. So low, it was nearly carried off by the wind. I sat up, staring timidly into the face of my mentor.

"Holmes, I'm sorry-" I started. But he wasn't finished.

"While you dip into the drink and cavort with women younger than you, the world sinks lower into disarray and confusion. Only with a trained mind, unfettered to women and alcohol, can a detective do his lot in life: keep the public safe."

"Holmes, you yourself took opium-"

"This has nothing to do with that," he snapped. I had never seen this side of Holmes, only read about it somewhere in the vague past.

"I said that I was sorry, Holmes. What else do you want me to say?" I asked, standing to my full height. I was nearly as tall as he was. We stood like that, eye to eye, gray on green, for a long while. Then my eyes fluttered open.

"Mr. Holmes," it was a woman's voice calling to me. I hissed in a painful breath as I felt cold fingers gently probing my wound. Apparently the thugs had hit me on the side of the face, for it was swelling. As my vision focused, I saw a blonde-haired girl hovering over me, and I groaned, wanting to retreat back into myself.

"Judy," I muttered. "How'd I get home?" The headache from the alcohol was beginning. The orphan placed a cold washcloth on my swelling face.

"Ms. Joan brought you here, and told me and Ronny to look after you." I became aware of Ron standing behind Judy, his face pulled tight with worry.

"Where's Watson?" I asked. Judy looked at Ron with a coy smile, then back to me.

"Ms. Joan said that he went with Ms. Sara to the river for a 'moonlight stroll.'" Judy ran a comforting hand over my swollen face. She had grown up quickly. She was hardly thirteen, yet she looked like a budding young woman already. But she still wore rags and let her hair become dirty and tangled. As many times as I offered, she preferred to live on the streets than take up quarters at Baker Street. I had a feeling that it had something to do with Ron.

"Hey, Jack," Ron knelt down next to the sofa (where I had obviously been lain) with a smile on his features. "How'd it happen?" he asked. To make his point, he pointed to his own face as if he had been the one to be punched. I sat up, my head swimming, and gathered my wits.

"Be glad you didn't come, Ron. Ms. Joan attracted the attentions of some rather unpleasant folk. Another bit of advice, my young brother... Don't attempt to fight when you've consumed great amounts of alcohol." I held my head steady, the pain throbbing in my brain. So _this_ was a hangover. "So much for trying to uphold a lady's honor, when I can't even keep my own."

"Oh, quiet,": Ron said indignantly. "You've got loads more honor than any old thug does. And trust me, I know a few." A light went off in my aching head, and I turned to my brother.

"Ron, Judy... You've lived on the streets. Do you know of a gang... There were five members present at the party. The leader, or so he seemed to be, was tall, maybe 21, with shot blonde hair and-" I wracked my brain, "-a fang-shaped earring." Ron thought for a moment, then shook his head. Judy bit her lip.

"I know them," she said quietly. "I don't remember what they call themselves, but I know the man you're talking about, Mr. Holmes. His name is Charlie Fulham, but his gang just calls him Drake." She had visibly paled, and her eyes looked everywhere but at myself or Ron when she'd told us. I looked on concernedly.

"Thank you, Judy. I'll take the matter to Scotland Yard when I am able to walk again." I stood, my feet unstable, and stretched. "In the meantime-"

"Jack!" A voice from behind me made me turn quickly. I lost my footing and fell back onto the couch slovenly. Joan was standing in the corridor leading to our rooms. Her rain dress had been sloughed off, and she was in a simple dress, and her hair was wet. She'd been in our flat the whole time. Blush rose to my face.

"J-Joan," I stuttered, losing my voice. "What are you-"

"Where were you planning on going?" She asked, her face a mixture of concern and anger. "Do you think you'd make it out the door without falling over?"

"I had no intention-"

She was suddenly sitting beside me, inspecting the wound Judy had been treating. She gave a small "tsk" and shook her head, watching me with sad eyes.

"You should've just let me deal with them, Jack," she said slowly. "You were very drunk."

"So I've been reminded," I said venomously, thinking of Holmes. Joan turned to Ron and Judy.

"Judy, could you go find out something more about that man you were talking about? What gang he's in?" Joan asked. Judy nodded, and was gone in the blink of an eye. "Ron, would you nip on down to the chemist's for something to put on your brother's face? It's not getting much better on its own."

"Uh, right," Ron muttered. He reached into my billfold and took off. I sighed, gingerly touching the side of my face.

"The great detective reduced to a fighting drunkard," I murmured. Perhaps Holmes had been right in that respect. And I'd probably been too hard on him in the first place. I'd be sure to make it up to him.

That was when she started kissing me.

One warm hand was centered on the back of my neck, fingers in my hair. Her lips had taken me quite by surprise. I could hardly do anything but give in. But I pulled back, breaking the embrace. Joan's hand quickly dropped from the back of my neck to her lap, suddenly demure again.

"Joan, what are you...? Why did you kiss me?" I asked, for the lack of a better question. She looked at me as if hurt.

"I thought you said you wanted to kiss me, Jack."

"I-I did?" The memories came flooding back: Joan in her shimmering dress, the alcohol, the dancing, the proximity we shared on the bench, how she'd smelled of champagne. "I did." We were still very close, and it would have been very easy to just lean forward and continue what I had broken away from. But I pulled back even further. "I... I need to take a walk," I announced.

Before I had time to say anything more, to apologize or take back any words, I had pulled on my coat and hat and strode out of the flat. I felt like a cur leaving her there, but I didn't know what else I could do. I was baffled, which was saying something for me. I let my feet take me where they wanted to go. Despite the chilly October air, my nerves began to calm and I gathered all of my bearings.

It was dawn, I realized. The sun had been abed when I left Baker Street, but as I crested a hill, I could see that the sun was slowly peeking above the horizon. I had arrived at the River Thames. How I had gotten there, I had no idea. I strolled idly down its banks, kicking stones hither and there, gazing out across the shimmering waters.

'Jack,' Holmes called from inside of me.

"You were right, Holmes," I told him, tossing a flat stone across the river. It skipped three times before sinking below the surface.

'I did not come to be condescending,' he admitted with a softer tone. 'But I am glad that finally grasp what it is I had been saying.'

"I left her in the flat, Holmes." I was angry with myself. "Who's to say she won't be waiting there with a brick to smash my face in? The woman is a bit unstable, shy and coy at one moment and thrusting her tongue down my throat the next." With a sigh I folded my arms across my chest and stared across the river. "I'm not sure what to think about her, Holmes. She's very beautiful..."

'It depends on your opinion, Jack.'

"Beauty isn't everything, of course." I trailed off. "I wonder what Ron will think when he returns to find Ms. Joan and not me sitting on the sofa."

"You left her there all by herself?"

I spun, for a second time, to find someone I didn't realize was there. Ron was sitting, quiet and unnoticed, on a bit of driftwood. He held ointment in one hand and was staring at me with incredulity.

"Did she really try to kiss you, Jack?" Ron asked with a wide grin.

"How long have you been standing there?" I asked with apprehension.

"Long enough to know that you like to talk to yourself." He hopped down from his perch. "Now I finally know that you're my big brother. How far did you get?"

"Ron!" My face burned. "That's none of your business, and _she_ was the one that decided to kiss _me_!" Ron stepped forward. My eyes darted to his feet. "Don't move another step," I warned in a low voice.

"What, am I about to step in-" He looked at his feet, and his face turned pale in an instant. A human body, covered in a red cloak, was strewn at his feet. He stumbled back, tripping over the driftwood and trembling. I stepped up to the body, checking it for any vital signs. There were none. I turned the body over, and I was met with the face of a young woman, eyes open and contracted in perpetual fear. Pain gripped at my heart. She was young, maybe 16. Ron's age. Emotion caught in my throat, but I forced it down.

"Ron, go to Scotland Yard. Find Inspector Lestrade. Mention my name; he knows me. Tell him that Jack Holmes has found the body of a young female on the bank of the Thames."

"R-right," Ron stuttered. He tried to walk a few times, stumbled, then was off. I knelt beside the body. I knew her face, but it escaped me as to who she was. No one close, that was for sure. It would be a while before the police showed up. I had a long time to think about it.

It was 15 minutes later that I realized who she was. I had seen her at the Halloween party. She'd asked to dance with me. When I'd asked her name, all she'd given me was, "I'm Little Red Riding-Hood!"

Looks like the wolf had won this time.

* * *

AN: All right... So, how are things in the Holmes section? Thought I'd ask cuz I've been gone so long. I hope no one missed me too terribly. But after watching "Great Mouse Detective" I'm back on Holmes. So, hopefully, I'll update regularly now. And I hope all the extra character development isn't getting anyone miffed at me. ... I'M BACK! BOO-YAH! Sorry. Had o do it. Enjoy the new chapter, everyone, and happy reading! 


	4. The Dragon Rears its Head

**Chapter Four: The Dragon Rears its Head**

Ron took a full hour before he returned with Inspector Lestrade. I had made myself comfortable next to the body, keeping my eyes sharp for any hapless traveler that might unwittingly stumble onto her. No one came for a long while. Holmes and I inspected the body as much as we could without infringing on the house of the law. I circled her incessantly, looking for minute clues.

"She has no defensive wounds," I muttered, looking at her exposed upper arms. "She may have been drugged, judging by the redness in her eyes and a needle-like entry wound on the inside of her left forearm."

'Very good,' Holmes interjected. 'We can save cause of death for a more appropriate time. How has our fairy-tale mistress appeared on our proverbial doorstep?' I stooped low to the ground, searching for any distinguishable footprints. I was able to isolate my own, those of Ron, and perhaps a dozen others.

"Nothing in particular stands out." I looked out across the river. "She could have been dropped off by just about anyone, judging from the varying prints..." I trailed off, and I knew that he was disappointed with my answer. He didn't make any comment or sound, but I knew by now that if I had any doubts in my answer, he had even more.

I rubbed my eyes and slumped down next to the body. I hadn't gotten enough sleep, in my opinion. Then again, with Holmes permanently lodging in my head, it was a miracle that I got any sleep at all. It was not that I was adverse to the man at all. Most of the time he was my only comfort. But when I genuinely needed _rest_...

"Mr. 'olmes!" I looked up sharply. Inspector Lestrade and Ron were cresting the banks and descending toward me. I stood to shake his hand. "Been a while since yew called for my 'elp, 'ey, detective?" I grinned and nodded.

"What, has it been a year since the Bradbury case?"

"An' then some, I thinks!" He chuckled, then removed his hat at the sight of the body. "Oh, that's a bloody shame, that is." Ron fell in beside me as Lestrade kneeled close to the girl.

"The Inspector said he's found another girl about her age on the bank of the Thames just about a week ago." He ran a nervous hand through his hair. I couldn't help but pull a smile.

"Was she dressed as Goldilocks, Inspector?" I asked. Lestrade looked up with a foul glare.

"No, sir. She were only 'bout 17, if I remember rightly." Couldn't find anything strange about 'er beside the fact she was dead, or why she'd showed up on the Thames at all." He scratched his thinning hair. "'Course we've only 'ad 'er for a week."

"Hold on," I interrupted. Lestrade froze as he held up the girl's head. The position of her head had shifted, and I saw something that I hadn't seen before. "Do you have any tweezers on you, Inspector?" He gave me a cynical look.

"Nah, lad, I left 'em in me other coat." He thought it was quite funny and laughed. I knelt next to the body and stuck my hand fingers into the girl's mouth. Lestrade nearly dropped her. "'Ey! What are you doin'!"

"Hold her still, Inspector!" I demanded. He shut his mouth, fuming. The tip of my fingers brushed what I had seen, and I gripped it firmly between my pointer and middle fingers. With a macabre flourish, I pulled a long silken handkerchief from the girl's throat.

"Cor blimey," Lestrade murmured.

"Wicked," was the only word I heard from Ron. I rocked back from the balls of my feet to sit back comfortably, where I had enough time to inspect the article.

"She didn't choke on it," I inferred. Her mouth was dry, and so is the kerchief, so there was no saliva in her mouth upon its insertion. It must have been shoved into her throat posthumously." I turned it over in my hands, and felt Ron leaning over my shoulder. We both noticed it at the same time.

"Hey, look at that, Jack," he said as his hand shot out to the bottom right hand corner. There was a tiny stitched motif on the corner in red thread. I reached into the pocket of my greatcoat and pulled out Joan's magnifying glass.

"It's a dragon," I said, raising one eyebrow. "A serpentine dragon swallowing its tail." I looked up at the inspector, and saw that two more officers had arrived to help transport the body. "Lestrade, I shall need a ride to the morgue."

* * *

"We matched her to a missing person's file," said Officer Dobson as I followed him into the morgue. "No one's come to claim her body, so we're waiting for someone to bring in money for a funeral. Otherwise, we were just going to cremate her." He opened the door for me, and I saw the poor girl lying on a table with a white sheet pulled over her face. She was taller than the girl I had found on the riverbank was, and her hair was long and flaxen. I pulled the sheet down to the girl's collarbone, then looked up at Officer Dobson.

"You do not mind if I inspect the body?"

Dobson shrugged. "Lestrade told me you had free range down here so long as you didn't try to do anything funny."

I went about poking and prodding in my methodic way. This girl, Rachel Hollensfield as Officer Dobson had informed me, had been found on the bank of the Thames a week previous. I found that she did not have a kerchief lodged in her throat as the younger girl had. Holmes was saying something, but I blocked him out. I wanted to solve _something_ on my own. I ran my fingers down one of her arms, then found it.

"Officer Dobson," I asked without looking up, "who cleaned and prepared her body?" He stuttered for a moment, then flipped through his papers.

"Seems a Dr. Jones saw to her. Found some printed image on her upper right arm, no sign of defensive wounds, and a needle puncture in her right arm. Apparently, she's very well endowed"

"That's all I need to know, Officer Dobson," I interjected, my face flushing. I pulled the girl's skin taut around the image drawn in red ink on the inside of her right arm. It was a serpentine dragon swallowing its own tail. And this time, it was accompanied by lettering in a foreign language. Damn my lack of education! I turned on Dobson. "Quickly, does Dr. Jones have the photographs from his report?"

"Err..." Dobson flipped through his papers again, then shrugged his thin shoulders. "Doesn't say here, Mr. Holmes. I could call Dr. Jones-"

"Please do. Ask him if he has any detailed pictures of the strange image on the girl's right arm. I should like to see it and perhaps take it to a library or two." I took one final quick look at the girl, then pulled the sheet over her head. "I should like to see if Inspector Lestrade and my brother have had any luck identifying the newest victim. Could you...?"

"Ah, of course," Officer Dobson was quick to open the door, and we exited. "What do you mean by newest victim? You think the two are related?"

"They both have on their person that strange depiction of a dragon devouring its tail, and puncture wounds on their right arms. They could be strange coincidences, but I would rather think of them as connected until I find otherwise."

We navigated the hallways until we reached Lestrade's private office. It was small and cluttered, as well as stuffy, even for October. Just as I had imagined it. Lestrade was sitting at his desk, Ron beside him as they pored over papers. My brother looked up as we entered.

"Jack, we found out who that girl is! Er, was." He ran to me, holding out a paper. "Her mother and father dropped in just about a half-an-hour before we got here. Seems they all went to that costume party you were at, but the girl didn't come back with them." He looked to his paper, then up again. "Her name was Lucy Helton, and her parents left her at the party when she said she would get a lift back home by- get this! - Charlie Fulham!"

"I've called out a dispatch to pick 'im up if they find 'im," Lestrade said gruffly. He smiled crookedly and leaned across his desk. "I 'ear the bloke gave you a bit of an 'ard time at the party, 'olmes." He laughed, and I glared as I absent-mindedly touched the side of my face where the ruffian had punched me. I glanced disapprovingly at Ron, who shrugged innocently.

"Yes, we got into a bit of a row over a certain woman-"

"_Women_ now, Mr. 'olmes?" Lestrade guffawed. I gritted my teeth.

"Officer Dobson and I have found a connection between the new victim and Rachel Hollensfield," I announced. Lestrade stopped his inane hee-hawing, and Ron perked up his ears. Dobson just seemed proud that I had used his name. "That dragon insignia on the girl's handkerchief was the same one inked on the inside of Ms. Hollensfield's arm. Seeing as I haven't run across it in my lifetime, nor has Officer Dobson, I suspect that it is fairly esoteric and will not be hard to hunt down." I tried to stifle a yawn. "While Scotland Yard's best do their fine work, I believe I shall be off back home to rest."

"You can't be serious!" Ron shouted, which was very unnecessary seeing as I was beside him. "Jack, this just begs to be thrown wide open! You've been _begging_ for a case-"

"This isn't my case, Ron," I assured him. "Just because I stumbled-

"_I_ stumbled," Ron corrected me.

"Just because _you_ stumbled on the body doesn't mean _we_ have any choice in the matter. I am a private detective, and this is Scotland Yard." I placed a comforting hand on my brother's shoulder while I looked up to meet Lestrade's gaze. "You know where I live if you need any consultation, Inspector."

"'Ave a nice nap, Detective," Lestrade said with a toothy grin as I shut the door to his office. Ron glared sullenly at me as I guided him out into the London streets. We were nearly home when he decided to speak.

"You never take the chance for something really interesting, Jack," he mumbled. "Something genuinely _wicked_ comes your way and you _hand it off to the police_!" A heavy sigh heaved through his thin, lanky frame. "You're miserable, Jack. Why can't you just solve the bloody case like I know you can?" He crossed his arms and refused to listen to anything I attempted to say. We walked home in silence.

I didn't have to open the door. Watson stood in the doorway, brown hair mussed and glasses askew.

"Thank God," he muttered. "Sara and I were just about to come looking for you." He smiled down at the sullen Ron. "You too. Ms. Joan was worried sick about the both of you-"

I had to prevent myself from slapping my hand across my face for my stupidity. I instead shut my eyes fast and groaned.

"Good Lord, Joan... I completely forgot." I sighed and leaned against the doorframe. "Ron, be a good lad and see if she's in the sitting room." Ron, a devilish grin on his impish features darted below Watson's arm and went inside. Watson gave me a quizzical look.

"What? I'm afraid I've completely missed something yet again." His friendly grin was enough to walk inside with him.

"Nothing, Watson. Ms. Joan and I... Well, she..." I rubbed the back of my neck, then looked up to see the red-faced Joan sitting on the sofa, just where I had left her. I was the first to break eye contact. That was Joan- never backing down. "I managed to involve myself with another affair at Scotland Yard, Watson," I said as I turned to him. "Two young girls washed up on the shore of the Thames, both with the same enigmatic symbol on their person."

"Really?" Watson seemed intrigued. We both sat at the table in the kitchen, and Sara handed Watson a cup of tea. She beamed down at me.

"Would you like some too, Holmes?" She asked. I shook my head.

"I need my sleep, but thank you." I stretched my arms above my head as I yawned again. "I'm hoping to get a call from an Officer Dobson tomorrow-" I corrected myself, "-or perhaps later today. My whole sense of time has been thrown off by this whole escapade. Anyway, he will hopefully have a picture of the strange symbol on the girl's arm and the letters that go with it."

"Letters? You mean a different language," Watson interjected between sips of tea. "Any idea what it might be?" I shook my head.

"Though I'm usually adept at deciphering code, this was a language I'm not familiar with." I stood quickly, and nodded to my two friends. "I'm sorry, but I haven't gotten much sleep at all-"

"No, Holmes, don't let me stop you," Watson said with a grin. "Really, who is the one to pop into your study to make sure you get your eyes shut?" I smiled.

"W. John Watson, alarm extraordinaire."

I left the kitchen, bypassed Ron, and fell to a slow halt as I passed Joan. She had her legs crossed and her hands folded in her lap. Her eyes were down. Against all greater judgment, I sat beside her. She didn't look up. _I have to do this_, I said to myself.

'Make amends,' Holmes said, mirroring my own thoughts. 'You do not have to love her, Jack. Repairing the friendship might mean as much to her now.'

I nodded, then leaned in closer to Joan. It took more nerves than I expected, but I closed my eyes and placed a soft kiss against her cheek.

"I'm sorry, Joan," I muttered, pulling back. Her eyes were on me now. There was sadness in them, but not tears. I expected tears from Sara, but not from Joan. "I'm sorry, but I can't." She inspected my face, then looked away to her hands again.

"I know," she answered, turning her hands over in her lap. "But it was worth a try." We sat in silence for another moment, then I reached out tentatively and squeezed her hand.

"Goodnight," I said. She smirked.

"It's good _morning_, Mr. Holmes."

"Jack," I corrected.

A soft laugh, and another smile. "Jack," she mirrored.

I lifted myself from the sofa and retreated into the darkened hallway to my room, where I fell onto my bed and slept for hours.

* * *

AN: I feel as if my writing was a little disjointed in this chapter, but... What can I do? Hope everyone still likes, even though I now realize that there's a distinct lack of Holmes in this chapter. I'll have to overcompensate (bwahahah). Input? Suggestions? The world is your apple pie! Thanks for reading, I love you all! 


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